The New Me

Owing to a bulging midsection and a lack of energy, I have joined a gym. At this gym, I have contracted the services of a personal trainer. In order to try to keep myself on track, I've decided to blog my workout experience. I started a few days ago, so here goes:

Workout Day 1:
It took a considerable amount of effort to actually go to the gym. It was as if the considerable weight of my belly knew it was at risk and made every attempt to hold me down. My wife, who fully supports my proposed transformation, went with me. Her will overrides the will of my belly.

Upon arrival at the gym I was greeted by a man named Jeremy who is built like an Abrams tank. It would not be ridiculous to imagine him using cliche phrases in a German accent. I realize quickly that I'm in trouble. Jeremy sits me down at his desk and asks me about my goals. I tell him I'm tired of buying new and larger pants, waking up tired, and general weakness. I also tell him I hate exercise. His smirk tells me my opinion is unlikely to change. Jeremy proceeds to stand me up in order to measure me. He somehow manages not to laugh at my pitifully small biceps and pitifully large waist. He weighs me, and then places an electronic body fat meter in my hands. The meter, in all it's cruelty, informs me that 25% of my body is, in fact, fat. I have been weighed, I have been measured, and I have certainly been found wanting...

"Let's start our workout," Jeremy says. The feeling of dread that has been developing in my stomach matures into full-fledged terror. For a warm up Jeremy starts me doing jumping jacks. (It takes me about 4 tries to remember how to do them.) Soon my breath becomes labored. Jeremy runs me through a series of jogging in place exercises, and then asks me if I know how to perform a lunge. He then teaches me how to perform a lunge. It is perhaps the most painful thing my legs have done in a great long while. As though not satisfied, Jeremy proceeds to place pressure on my fists, telling me to push upwards while in the lunge position. This goes poorly. Undeterred, Jeremy soon has my back up against the wall in the squatting position. The pain is enormous. Again, he asks me to push up against his downward hand pressure. It is becoming clear that Jeremy the tank could just as easily destroy me as he could say hello.

"Scale of 1-10, 1 you feel great, 10 you're gonna puke, how do you feel?" "8," I rasp through ragged breaths. My body aches, my muscles refuse to perform their requested functions, and I feel as though I've been through a full day's physical punishment. It has been 15 minutes of actual exercise. After a shot cool down and stretch, Jeremy takes me on a tour of the various brand new and very modern torture devices at the gym. I regret that I have paid an entire year's worth of membership up front.

Week 1 weight: 155 lbs.
Weight loss to date: 0 lbs.
Weight loss goal: 15 lbs.


Workout Day 2:
Jeremy instructed me yesterday to return to the gym in order to, "do some cardio on the treadmill." I told him I hate running. He smiled, and I realized he doesn't care what I do and don't hate. I am told to punish myself on the treadmill for a period of 45 minutes, during which I must include at least 5 periods of running, lasting 3-4 minutes per period. I bring my Ipod and proceed to jog for a song, and then walk for a song until my 45 minutes expires. It is mind-numbing, painful work, but I get through it. Sometime during the last part of my workout while I am pondering quiting, it dawns on me that the devil hates me being in shape, and is encouraging me to fail. This angers me, and fuels the rest of my workout. Jeremy calls later in the day to ask how it went. I tell him it was, "flipping hard." He doesn't seem to mind. "Drink lots of water, take some Aleve tonight, and I'll see you tomorrow," he says. "Great," I think to myself, "I'm so looking forward to it."